


Between Supposed Lovers

by fannishliss



Series: Between Supposed Lovers [1]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: M/M, Wincest - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-14
Updated: 2013-10-14
Packaged: 2017-12-28 17:58:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,035
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/994854
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fannishliss/pseuds/fannishliss
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Once again, Dean confronts Sam about why people always see a homoerotic subtext between them.</p><p>Coda to 5.9 The Real Ghostbusters</p><p>Soundtrack : "Schism" by Tool </p><p>Author's notes at the end.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Between Supposed Lovers

Dean peeled out of the hotel lot, going the wrong way out the in-road. Dean drove in silence, tapping out the complicated rhythms of some sort of prog-rock from Sammy’s iPod on the steering wheel (part of his concessions toward the New Brotherliness) as Sam peered into the growing darkness and the sun went down November style.

“Hungry?” Sam finally said.

“Will be. Thinking steak,” Dean responded. There had been a lunch buffet included on the con tickets Becky had passed them, and the hotel had laid out a good spread despite (or maybe in apology for) the previous night’s horrors.

“Sizzler?” Sam asked with a straight face, and Dean smirked.

“Why the hell not?” Dean snorted, then frowned and dove in. “What the hell is all this homoerotic shit about, Sam? I mean, seriously.”

“Seriously?” Sam cocked his own eyebrow back at him.

“Yeah,” Dean shrugged.

Sam gave it some thought, took a breath, opened his mouth, closed it again.

“You’re not gonna like it, man. I, uh.... just saying, you will not like it.” Sam tried the so-called puppydog face (it sometimes worked).

“Cut me a little slack, Sammy. You really think I’m that big a jerk?”

“No! No, that’s not it at all,” Sam tried to backpedal.

“... because I thought I handled it pretty well, about those two us’es being gay partners.”

“What?”

“... yeah, cause I went to thank ‘em and got their names and all, and it turned out they were ‘more than friends.’”

“You don’t say.”

“Oh, but I do!”

“Hm.” Sam furrowed his brow yet again. “Is that what makes you wonder?”

“Uh... well, that, and the whole panel on homoeroticism, I mean, forget the whole Dean is a frightened little boy thing, but Becky runs an entire website based on you and me getting it on.”

“It’s your vibe,” Sam spat. Maybe if he said it really quickly there would be no chance for an awkward silence to develop.

It developed anyway.

“My.... vibe?? Seriously, Sam. What does that even mean?”

“We’ve had this conversation before, you know.”

“Yeah, I know, like ‘overcompensating’ means shit to me.”

“Yeah, uh, that’s not really it, you know. It goes a lot deeper than that.”

“Sam.”

“Don’t take that tone now! You asked! I already said you wouldn’t like it.”

“Okay. Watch me. I’m gonna let out a breath, and then you’re gonna start from the beginning. Like, why would two gay lovers want to play you and me on the weekend. Just explain it to me in small words.”

Sam was silent again for a little bit till he found his starting point. “Well, okay. Did you ever hear of ‘gaydar’?”

“Well yeah, Sam. I don’t live under a rock, you know.”

“Well, I mean, there’s like, someone’s body language, the way they hold your gaze – like how you know if a woman wants you to pick her up or not.”

“Yeah, okay,” Dean said, following, and then Sam dropped the bomb.

“Every inch of you screams ‘back off, he’s mine.’”

“What?”

Sam was in for a penny, in for a pound. Or some sort of British monetary metaphor.

“We walk into a room, who’s in front.”

“Me, but that’s because you’re taller. What does that have to do with anything?”

“It’s all part of the same thing. Do you realize that you lean up against me at bars?”

“So?”

“And the whole silent conversation thing.”

“We’re brothers, Sammy! For fuck’s sake.” Now Dean was getting upset.

Sam sighed. “Look, Dean, I told you you wouldn’t like it. Pretty much everything you do makes it look like we’re gay lovers.”

“What the fuck!” Dean’s voice was rising in pitch, which was never a good sign.

“Dean!” Sammy felt his lips pinching together in that unattractive way he had no control over, and Dean’s lips moved as he counted to thirty-seven.

“Look, I’m not trying to say it’s a bad thing, okay?”

“Of course it’s a bad thing, Sammy! It’s like the definition of a very bad thing! When people say, that bad man did a very bad thing, THIS is what they’re talking about!” Dean abruptly lowered his voice to a whisper. “I’m your brother, Sammy! Why would they think this kind of shit about me?”

Sam suddenly, deeply, and abruptly, got it.

“Oh, my god, Dean. No. That’s not what they think....”

“Yes, it is, Sam. It is.” Dean’s eyes now had that particular darkened gloss to them that Sam had learned to hate.

“No, Dean. Dean. Really. Chuck’s fans don’t know shit... they’re just making this stuff up. For kicks.”

“No, they’re not, Sammy,” Dean all but whispered. They were still driving, along some long dark stretch of highway, with no promise of motels, or steak, or anything but darkness. The sun was gone and they were surrounded by darkness. “You already said it. I ping their gaydar. I have a ‘vibe.’”

Sam hated the way Dean was gripping the wheel. Why did they always have to get into it when Dean was driving. Shit.

Sam cleared his throat. Damage control, then steak, then whiskey.

“Okay, just stop for a second. Let’s go back to the homoeroticism.”

Silence from Dean’s side of the Impala, and the iPod switched to something staticky and weird. Sam flipped off the stereo.

“The, ah, homoeroticism isn’t always about sex...”

“the fuck” Dean muttered bitterly.

Sam ignored him. “... homoeroticism is one part of a theoretical critique of the ways men relate in life and literature, the way men’s closest and most emotionally laden relationships seem often to be with other men. It’s not always about gay sex,” Sam finished lamely, knowing that a precis of Eve Sedgwick wasn’t going to really help Dean in this instance.

“With, with, Demian and Barnes and probably everyone Becky fucking knows, it’s about gay sex,” Dean insisted darkly.

“Dean! Just shut up, okay? You don’t actually want to have sex with me, right, so what does it matter what they or anyone thinks?”

Silence.

Wait. What?

“Dean, do... I mean, you ... you don’t really, do you?”

“Fuck, Sammy.”

“Oh, my god. Dean.”

Dean was squinting fiercely at the road and he was beginning to sniffle. This was getting really ugly, really fast. Sam tried to think. He had nothing.

The silence held, deepened.

The Impala crested a rise and there in front of them was the intersection of two US highways, and a little building with a broken neon sign that read TEL AND AURANT.

Dean coasted grimly into the parking lot, shut down the Impala, and slammed out of the car.

Sam followed a heartbeat behind, but the conversation was over.

In silence, the two of them choked down two very nice, very cheap ribeyes, steak fries and Cokes. (Goddamn dry counties, in this day and age, what the fuck.)

“King?” the woman behind the counter asked Dean with a pleasant smile.

“Two queens, please,” Dean said, not gritting his teeth, with his most forebearing grimace.

Sam mentally slapped his forehead. “Brothers...” he added lamely to the clerk.

“Of course,” she agreed with a knowing smile.

They got their shit out of the car in the stoniest silence since War. Sam realized that he had to take the bull by the horns here if he didn’t want their own personal Armageddon to materialize right in this little rural motel. Seas running red, moon turning to blood, nothing compared to Dean internalizing his guilt and running with it.

Dean flipped on the TV and went to the bathroom, closing the door. Lines drawn.

Sam flipped the TV back off again. The motel provided all the channels Dean could wish for, and Sam wasn’t letting him off that easily.

By the time Dean emerged from the bathroom, damp behind the ears but fully dressed again, Sam had poured them two stiff glasses of whiskey (thank god for the first aid whiskey, they never went without it).

“Whiskey, stat!” Sam said, and by god, Dean laughed.

“I know, right? I’m face down on the table, and you’re all ‘dental floss and a sewing needle’!”

“Stat!”

Dean giggled, and Sam smiled in relief. They took up their respective posts on the ends of the queens, their drinks hanging between their knees.

Sam looked over at Dean. Dean looked back, finally sighed, closed his eyes, and downed the drink. Sam nodded. It was at least two fingers. So it was that bad.

“Hell, Sam. I’d never do anything, I swear. It’s just...”

“You don’t have to explain yourself to me, Dean. You’re my brother. No matter what.”

“I know, okay? but... it’s just... I was in Hell for forty years, okay? Psychotherapists? got nothing on demons, man.”

Sam was confused. “You mean, they, like, brainwashed you...?”

“Nah. They, uh, they said they were just ‘opening my eyes.’ God. Alistair loved it, you know? He taunted me with you non-stop for the longest time.”

“I am so sorry, Dean.” Sam always felt so god damned helpless when it came to Dean’s time in Hell--- stuff that wasn’t even possible to put into human language, all intended to break Dean down and rebuild him as a demon torturer of the first caliber – and it had worked.

“Yeah. I mean. God damn it. You, you always... there’s not a lot in my life so great, Sammy, but you.... I never meant for it.... it wasn’t supposed...”

“Dean, I know you’d never...”

Dean cut him off. “I would, though, Sammy. I totally would.”

Sam just looked over at his brother, sitting on the end of the bed next to his, back bowed, darkness in his eyes. He made his decision, drained his glass and set it on the floor. He stood, took two steps, and sat down again next to Dean.

Hip to hip, thigh to thigh, shoulder to shoulder. He sat to Dean’s left, like he always did. It wasn’t uncomfortable at all. Just the opposite. It was the comforting habit of the best parts of a long, rough lifetime. And just like always, Dean leaned slightly into him, not aware of it, just pressing into a weight he trusted to hold him up, like the columns of a temple.

Sam swallowed. He lifted his right hand and dropped it gently on the back of Dean’s neck.

“I would too, you know.”

“Don’t lie to me, Sam.” Dean’s voice had gone back to a whisper. He kept his gaze on the floor. “You were always ready to hit the road; like, half the time you were half way out the door. I never mattered to you like you did to me.”

Sam’s hand flew off the back of Dean’s neck as though electrified. He found himself on his feet, his arms spread wide.

“Bullshit! Bullshit, Dean. I’ve told you so many times, when I left, it wasn’t to get away from you....”

“Sam...” Dean said wearily, hand rubbing at his eyes.

“I’ve seen what I become without you, Dean. Whatever it is I thought I’d find, all those times I took off on my own, I never did. Only with you, Dean. I... fit.”

Dean just shook his head. Sam dropped to his knees, and that startled Dean enough that he opened his eyes and really looked.

Sam was man enough, he knew himself well enough now, what he was capable of, his worst and best impulses. He just dropped his guard and let everything show.

Dean just stared, and stared, and stared, till Sam started to feel it in his knees, then hesitantly, Dean leaned forward.

“In Hell,” he whispered.

“Yeah?” Sam said.

“In Hell, they’d let me remember... stuff I never did... stuff with you... I wanted it so bad, Sammy. They’d stop with the knives... they’d let me rest... and then they’d start it up, and it felt so real, like you were really there...” Dean whispered.

Sam put his hands on Dean’s thighs, and Dean shivered, but he didn’t pull away.

“You’d kiss me, Sammy. It felt so sweet, you know? Hell just dropped away... the pain, the screaming, the stench? I could smell you. The most familiar smell. The feel of your lips on my, on my face, my neck... your hands on my body, and I wanted it, I wanted it so bad.... and then it would be demons again, oh God... but I never didn’t want it, Sammy. I wanted it.”

Dean was crying, but he wasn’t hiding, he was letting out all his conflicting emotions for Sam to see.

“You still want it. You want.... me,” Sam said.

“God help me, Sammy. I do,” Dean said, tears running down his face, eyes wide open.

“Dude, I’m right here,” Sam said, not moving a muscle.

Sam’s hands were hot on Dean’s denim-covered thighs. He could feel the tension trembling in Dean’s quads as Dean thought about it.

Almost imperceptibly, Dean leaned forward again, until Sam closed his eyes, and he felt the lightest, softest brush of lips against his own, and electricity surged through every nerve in his body. He sprang out in a sweat, pressing his lips softly back against his brother’s kiss, not daring to move, remembering so many times in the past, Dean’s innocent kisses against his fevered forehead when he was sick or Dean’s strong arms holding him so tight he could hardly breathe when they scraped through a hunt. Sam was ultra-aware of his brother’s scent, the warmth of him – and right here, right now, the incredible intensity of the man seated on the bed in front of him, wanting him so hard that he was vibrating with it.

Dean broke the kiss, and chaste as it had been, they were both panting. Dean rested his forehead against Sam’s, and Sam lightly soothed his thighs, surreptitiously wiping the sweat from his palms.

“Dude, are you going to freak out? Cause I have got to get up off of this floor,” Sam groaned.

“Old man! you’re only twenty-six,” Dean retorted.

“Yeah, well, I wasn’t rebuilt by a freakin’ angel.”

“American made and built to last, Sammy,” Dean joked, and the tension fell away as Sam stood, and stretched. He dug out his kit and went to the bathroom, leaving the door open. He got out his toothbrush and methodically cleaned his teeth, and after a minute Dean joined him, like always.

They went through their pre-sleep routine without a twist until Dean climbed into the bed next to the door, and Sam considered for a split second and climbed in with him.

“Sam,” Dean started, sitting up, but Sam just shushed him and got up on one elbow.

“Listen, man. I don’t want you to keep on freaking out about all this. Whatever it is, Dean, it doesn’t have to be, whatever, this ‘very bad thing.’ It can be whatever we want it to be.”

“Some things we don’t get to have, Sam,” Dean said, tiredly, but Sam reached out and pulled Dean down. Bit by bit, Dean relaxed and let Sam pull him flat onto the bed.

“Dude, just take it easy. It’s not gonna be like some huge irrevocable thing if we just, open the lines of communication a little. It’s just gonna help us deal with what’s already there. Okay?”

“Okay, Sammy,” Dean said simply, and Sam was relieved to hear the trust in Dean’s voice.

“I remember when you used to sleep with me as a kid, when I’d have nightmares. You were always there for me, Dean. I love you.” Sam didn’t want to make a big pronouncement, but he wanted Dean to know it. “That’s never going to change.”

“I love you too, Sammy,” Dean murmured, eyes closed, but then he turned onto his side and scooted backward till he was pressed up against Sam, and Sam gently put his arm around his brother, felt him relax. Close as brothers, close as lovers, they would pass the night, and tomorrow they would get out of bed and be heroes again.

~*o*~

AUTHOR’S NOTES.  
In response to my hour of need,  [](http://andreth47.livejournal.com/profile)   
[ **andreth47** ](http://andreth47.livejournal.com/) prompted me thusly: “Do a cliche fic: either playing off of wincest fic tropes, or playing off of badfic cliches. Sam and Dean from War's POV. Coda to 5.09: Dean's smile at the end, leaning on Baby's hood. Sam comes up behind him and hugs him, starts groping him, and Demian and Barnes catch them.” So I didn’t exactly fulfill the prompt, but didn’t exactly dodge it either. Hope you like it, Ciaran!!

It all fell into place while I was listening to my Supernatural Season Four Soundtrack, which has the Tool song, “Schism” at the end. “Schism” is so apropos of the brothers during S4, and has remarkable resonances now that they are trying to put themselves back together. Here are the lyrics for reference purposes:

“I know the pieces fit cause I watched them fall away  
Mildewed and smoldering. Fundamental differing.  
Pure intention juxtaposed will set two lovers’ souls in motion  
Disintegrating as it goes testing our communication  
The light that fueled our fire then has burned a hole between us so  
We cannot see to reach an end crippling our communication.

I know the pieces fit cause I watched them tumble down  
No fault, none to blame it doesn't mean I don't desire to  
Point the finger, blame the other, watch the temple topple over.  
To bring the pieces back together, rediscover communication

The poetry that comes from the squaring off between,  
And the circling is worth it. Finding beauty in the dissonance.

There was a time that the pieces fit, but I watched them fall away.  
Mildewed and smoldering, strangled by our coveting  
I've done the math enough to know the dangers of our second guessing  
Doomed to crumble unless we grow, and strengthen our communication.

Cold silence has a tendency to atrophy any sense of compassion  
Between supposed lovers/brothers”

COULD IT BE ANY MORE BROS. WINCHESTER? I THINK NOT.  
Obviously, Sam has “Lateralus” on the iPod.

A couple years ago I made one of my favorite mix cd’s entitled “mildewed and smouldering” and it is pretty much all apocalyptic. I’ll copy and send it to anyone who wants one. :)  



End file.
